I’m watching my boyfriend coo sweet nothings at Susie. In response to his praise Susie whimpers and drools. I check my watch.
“She’s perfect,” Todd informs me as he stands up from his kneeling position.
“She sheds,” I reply. It’s two o’clock. We were supposed to be having lunch by now.
He pats me on the small of my back. “So do you. It’s cute.”
I wonder if he expects me to wag my tail like the tiny Beagle now shitting on the cement floor before us. I have a feeling dog hair is a lot less cute than the hair of the woman who fucks you twice a week.
“Do you think we have room in our apartment for a dog?” I ask. Off his look, I continue, “I don’t want her to feel cramped.”
I fail to mention that I’m the one who feels cramped, what with the antique bookcase Todd found on the street two days ago and installed in our living room half the size of a minivan. As an empty bookcase makes Todd feel sad, the next day he went to the Chelsea flea market and had the bookcase overstuffed by seven pm. He also had two ceramic cherubs displayed proudly on its top.
“They’re a symbol,” he told me as I served us Cajun chicken on the couch-come-dinner table. He balanced his plate on his knees and poured Cabernet into the glasses sitting on the wood floor. “They’re a symbol for how much I love you.”
I kissed his cheek and spilled my yellow rice. Two years after we first started dating, he still can say things that make me blush and forget my carefully constructed insouciant demeanor.
Then he dropped the bombshell.
“I think we should get a dog,” he said.
So here we are, at the pound. An employee whisks away Susie’s offending secretions while our adoption counselor Michael repeats the sob story already typed up via typewriter and displayed on Susie’s cage door. Abused by her owners and left for dead on the New Jersey Turnpike, Susie fears men but will eventually turn loving after consistent affection. She’s one of Michael’s “favorites.”
“I bet you say that about all the bitches,” I joke. Michael blankly looks me and then turns back to Todd.
“Shall we go sign the paperwork?”
“She’s so cute!” Todd squeals. He smiles down at Susie and starts to clap his hands. “Who’s the cutest puppy in the world? Who’s the cutest puppy in the world?”
“She’s not a puppy,” I correct. His repetitive baby talk is annoying. I’m hungry; I want my Caesar salad and glass of Pinot Grigio. “She’s five years old. Isn’t that like thirty-five in dog years? She’s older than your big sister.”
Todd ignores me and gives Michael a thumbs up. “Let’s get her out of here.”
It’s only when the boys exit Susie’s cage, which Todd pointed out earlier was half the size of our aforementioned miniscule den, that I realize the “her” Todd speaks of is Susie and not myself.
Apparently my response, “There’s more breathing room in here than in our den,” was not appreciated.
“Why don’t you stay behind and bond with Susie?” Todd suggests with a look that informs me this is anything but a suggestion.
He’s still mad about our discussion over oatmeal three days ago, the day he fled the apartment and found that horrific bookcase. I nod mutely and try not to cringe when I hear the cage door close. I watch the boys walk away and then turn to look down at my dog, our stand-in for the child I do not want to have.
Susie sits on her haunches and stares up at me. Her brown and white fur is dirty and matted. This dog is not cute; she’s a mess. I wonder how often the pound cleans these dogs, whether she’s been checked for fleas and, most importantly, how often I’ll be expected to wash her.
I’ll make no bones about it (pun intended), Todd wants the dog but I know I’m the one who will be stuck taking care of it. For him, this is a lark, another venue where he can express love without repercussions. Last year we became supporters of some starving child in Uganda. A gold-framed photograph on Todd’s desk represented our “daughter” Anita. The most noticeable thing about Anita was her array of bones: they stuck out prominently from areas that hadn’t even occurred to us contained bones. Todd wrote her every day and donated an extra twenty-five to fifty bucks a month. Six months after we joined the program we received a notice from the government that Anita was a scam.
Susie waddles up to me and starts to lick my flats. Awkwardly, I reach down and scratch her head. Her hair is coarse.
Todd will run off to the lab and study chemical compounds while I, the writer who works from home, will be the one who takes Susie for walks around the block, feeds her, and begs her to stop barking while the neighbors call to complain.
My feet hurt, and the dog’s slobber only accentuates this. I have a feeling Todd will be a while. Most likely he will get distracted by the pound’s pet supply store we passed on our way to the cages. With a sigh, I sit down Indian-style on the cement and thank God I am wearing jeans.
Susie launches herself into my lap and knocks my stomach with her hard ball of a head. I wince; I still haven’t fully recovered from the surgery.
I will never tell Todd about last month’s abortion. What for Todd had been a “quick trip home to visit my friends who you find childish” was really a “quick trip home to let my friends take care of me while I killed your child.” I hadn’t outright lied, the girls had been visited, but the reasoning for my trip was left purposely vague.
Avoiding sex hadn’t been too tricky. My lie of an ulcer (conveniently discovered when visiting the girls) had been believed, and as long as I went down on him a few times a week and let him cum in my mouth Todd remained unsuspicious.
Susie licks my face. Her breath smells like dog food. When I turn away so as to not get her slobber on my lips, I come face to face with Susie’s neighbor, a large black poodle missing her left eye.
“Hey girl,” I say. The poodle grunts and turns away.
Suddenly hot, I stand and push Susie off of me. She lunges for my Met Museum tote bag while I look around us and try to imagine what it feels like to be a dog in a pound. There are so many cages, and so many disgusting, rank smells. The staccato shrieks of children (“Look Mom! A puppy!”) interrupt the chorus of barking dogs. I want out. The cage is locked.
Susie starts making unsettling wheezing noises behind me. I turn, my personal effects are scattered on the floor and haphazardly pushed around while Susie continues to choke as she runs in misshapen circles.
“Shit!” I gasp. “What did you eat?!” The dog pants in response. My lipstick is there by her water bowl, so is my wallet, and my cell phone…
The chorus of canines increases in volume.
“Susie!” I fall to my knees and shake her. Her eyes meet mine, and I see fear so pure I catch my breath. I let go of her and she continues to wheeze. I pry open her mouth and can just make out the pink and white wrapper of a maxipad.
My friends told me that when I came out of my surgery, morphined to the max, I was crying. They kept asking me what was wrong, was I in pain, what could they do, but all I did was cry in response. They say it was the scary kind of crying, the kind with no sound, just empty, open mouth gasps.
Susie is on the ground, gasping heavily on her right side. Unsuccessfully I pry open her chops, with red-manicured hands wet from her saliva I tug at the end of the pad to no avail. I stand up and yell for help. My voice is surprisingly hoarse. No staff employees or volunteers pay us any attention; they are too busy assisting happy families with the adoption of their new members. It is only when I try to wipe dirt out of my eye that I realize my cheeks are wet.
Five minutes later, Todd and Michael return. Todd’s arms are filled with multi-colored doggy toys. I hold Susie’s body, rocking her back and forth. I’ve stopped crying. “I killed her,” I say flatly from behind the cage bars as Michael rushes to get help. Todd stares at me, his eyes an echo of Susie’s from moments before, and I am fully aware that at that moment, the relationship is dead.